must have got lost

I wrote this story in 2012, a few years after the events described herein took place. It originally appeared on my illustration blog and it is one of my personal favorites. If you have read it before, well... you might enjoy it all over again. If this is your first time reading it, you may want to grab a box of tissues first. It's a harrowing tearjerker. — JPiC

Let me tell you about Pudge.

In the summer of 1982, just after Mrs. Pincus and I met, we went on a day trip to Hershey Park. Just barely into our 20s, the appeal of an amusement park still held excitement for us. In between turns on the roller coasters, bumper cars and Mrs. P's personal favorite, the Tilt-O-Whirl, we wandered into a few souvenir shops that dotted the park's layout. Among the Hershey-emblazoned t-shirts, snow globes, mugs and giant pencils was a shelf displaying an array of plush animal characters. On the second shelf below eye-level sat a slightly over-stuffed brown bear looking very dapper in a blue and red striped shirt. That bear was Pudge. The expression on Pudge's face made him look a bit forlorn and Mrs. Pincus was instantly smitten. I convinced Mrs. P that the last thing she needed was another stuffed animal. (At the time, I did not realize the gravity of the mistake I was in the process of making.) Pudge was placed back on the shelf and we left the store. The one-sided conversation on our ride home was me being berated for not allowing the purchase of Pudge. The next several months saw my beloved bride scouring every conceivable outlet within a fifty-mile radius that would have the remotest of possibilities of stocking the elusive Pudge. (This was in a time before a simple Google search would yield any number of global retail establishments and purchases could be made without putting on shoes, getting dressed, burning gasoline or making contact with another human being.) Finally, after what seemed like an eternal exercise in futility, Pudge was tracked down and located at a mall a little under sixteen miles from our home. Mrs. Pincus purchased that little brown fellow, brought him home and soon his adventures began.

Pudge has accompanied my family on many trips to many places. From short jaunts around the corner to my in-law's house to exciting, multi-day automobile treks down the eastern seaboard to elaborate, cross-country flights to the Pacific coast, Pudge has been there and he has the pictures to prove it.

L to R (top row): At the Statue of Liberty; On the Kiss production line at Hershey, PA; With the Monster.com mascot at eBay Live in Boston; Pudge receives the Emmy; In Graceland's visitor parking lot; At the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland; With the 2008 World Series trophy.

L to R (bottom row): At the famous Randy's Donuts in Inglewood, CA; On the front steps of Gianni Versace's house in Miami; On Winnie the Pooh's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; Waiting for the Strasburg Rail Road; Having fun on a Carnival cruise; Riding a Nittany Lion at State College, PA; Riding the bus with Rosa Parks at the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis.

Pudge has seen the roaring waters of Niagara Falls and the stirring majesty of The Statue of Liberty. He has paid his respects to the late King of Rock and Roll at Graceland and viewed memorabilia of Elvis' contemporaries at The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Pudge has witnessed tributes to legendary ballplayers at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown and famous movie stars on the star-studded Walk of Fame in Hollywood. One trip, however, is the topic of limited discussion — the details of which are related in hushed tones and then quickly the subject is changed before emotions bubble over. Over twenty-five years after Pudge joined our family, he was nearly lost forever. (Sure, one time my wife absent-mindedly stuck Pudge in a drawer at her parent's seashore apartment in Ventnor, New Jersey. But, once we retraced our moves, Mrs. P was again united with Pudge in a tearful reunion.)

As spring became summer in 2008, the planning stages began for a complicated, multi-legged, two-week drive to Florida — involving my in-laws, my brother-in-law and his family and other assorted and uncategorized extended family members — with a lengthy stop in Orlando before proceeding to the ultimate destination of Miami Beach to visit yet more relatives. My wife would be accompanying her parents alone, serving as travelling companion, as well as navigator and chauffeur of their vehicle for the lion's share of the journey. I would not be joining them, as securing two consecutive weeks off from my full-time job would be difficult, plus, it was implied that my son and I were not invited on this trip. (I surmised this when my wife's brother informed her rather bluntly, "Your miserable husband and your miserable son are not invited." I was quite proud of my brilliant deduction skills.) My wife carefully packed all the necessities she would require for a fortnight in the Sunshine State including a travelling companion of her own — Pudge. Snug within the confines of her backpack, Pudge stayed secure between Mrs. P's make-up bag and her wallet, occasionally popping out for a seat on the dashboard, providing company when Mrs. P's Mom and Dad dozed off in their seats.

I kept in regular phone contact with my wife during her trip. She'd call to document the day's activities, the sights they saw, the pictures Pudge posed for. I'd tell her about the concerts my son and I attended in her absence and reassured her that we were eating well and taking care of each other. As she began her week in Orlando, the phone conversations evolved into reports of the petty arguments and unusual behavior she witnessed among her family as an unattached observer. Mrs. Pincus was the first one up each morning and, subsequently, the first one out the door as my sister-in-law's sister staggered about in a hangover-induced stupor and my two nieces bickered over which pair of Crocs they would wear and who picked all the green clovers out of the box of Lucky Charms. With a smile on her lips and Pudge in her backpack, Mrs. Pincus exited the mayhem in the claustrophobic time-share and drove her own rental car off to enjoy a Disney theme park. She'd spend several days experiencing all that Disney offered in EPCOT, the Disney Studios and, of course, The Magic Kingdom. (She skipped the Animal Kingdom because, no matter how persuasive Disney tries to be with the idea that it's "Natazu" ... it's a zoo.) Her solo adventures were interrupted infrequently by the briefest interaction with her parents (based on their limited capacity of mobility) or her brother's family (based on their limited capacity of getting their shit together). So, for the most part she was alone — except for Pudge.

On the final day before departure to their more southerly course, Mrs. Pincus wished to spend her remaining hours at the Magic Kingdom, her favorite of the Disney parks. Before she set out that morning, Mrs. P's sister-in-law presented her with a heaping stack of special "line jumper" passes — allowing immediate access to the ride-boarding area — that they had received from a Disney "castmember" (The Walt Disney Company's universal word for "employee") in order to pacify a (possibly-imagined and most-likely exaggerated) "horrible situation." It was explained that they couldn't conceivably use all of the passes they were awarded in their allotted time, so Mrs. P took them with the instruction: "use as many as you can." With the majority of her group awkwardly traipsing their way across EPCOT, Mrs. P languidly strolled down Main Street, meandered through the faux-exoticism of Adventureland, leisurely moseyed along the wooden-planked walkways of Frontierland and lazily sauntered the winding paths of Fantasyland. As dusk approached and the ambient lights came on, the once sun-brightened surroundings now sported an otherworldly glow and Mrs. P found herself in Tomorrowland. Choosing a ride on the fearsome Space Mountain as the capper to her visit, she entered the queue line and distributed fistfuls of the special passes to delighted strangers who happened to be in the right place at the right time.  At the ride's conclusion, she was breathless and parched. She reached into her backpack for a bottle of water. With her thirst sufficiently quenched, she headed towards the still-open shops on Main Street when her cellphone rang. It was her brother.

"Are you still at the Magic Kingdom?," he inquired.

"Yes. Why?," replied Mrs. Pincus.

"I forgot to get Mouse Ears for the girls. Can you get them?" he asked, hopefully. It was nearing closing time on the last day of a six-day vacation and it had just occurred to my brother-in-law that the single most popular Disney souvenir had not been purchased for his children.

"I'd be glad to.," my wife answered cheerfully. She truly is the nicest person on this otherwise God-forsaken planet. She memorized the details of her brother's request, dutifully noting the style of head wear and the desired inscriptions, and made a beeline towards the Main Street hat shop. Engulfed by the throng of exiting guests, she came upon a cheerful group of castmembers wearing Mickey Mouse-style gloves and waving "Good Night" to the tired and contented patrons. Mrs. P thought this would make for a great photo of Pudge. She opened her backpack to retrieve her camera and, to her horror, Pudge was gone. A cold sweat burst upon her forehead, her throat tightened and her heart thumped uncontrollably in her chest. She tossed the contents of her backpack from side to side. Pudge was indeed gone. Tears began to well in her eyes as she frantically scanned the ground in her immediate area. Panicked, she retraced her steps for several yards and replayed her recent activity in her mind. Space Mountain, water, phone call, castmembers. It all swelled into a big confusing blur. Suddenly, a lucid thought was triggered and she beat a determined path to the renowned Lost & Found at Main Street's City Hall.

Taking her place at the end of a line populated by the optimistic owners of lost sunglasses and misplaced flip-flops, a tearful Mrs. P fidgeted until the woman in front of her said, "You look like you lost something very  important. Please. Go ahead of me". My wife thanked her and approached the castmember behind the desk. With tears streaming down her cheeks, my wife's voice cracked as she spoke.

"I lost a small brown plush bear. He has a red and blue striped shirt and I am not leaving this place without him."

The young lady behind the desk smiled reassuringly and said, "Just a minute. I'll look."

A few excruciatingly-long moments later, the young lady emerged from a hidden cache somewhere behind the reception area. Resting in the cupped hands of her outstretched arms was Pudge.

"Is this him?," she asked. Before she had reached the word "him", Mrs. Pincus had nearly leaped over the desk and snatched Pudge out of her hands. She hugged the little bear to her face, wetting his matted, plush fur with her tears. She thanked the City Hall staff profusely, still crying. Somewhere between Space Mountain and the end of Main Street, Pudge must have tumbled out of the backpack. Then, a thoughtful, concerned and compassionate guest picked him up and brought him to the Lost & Found, figuring that someone might be looking for this little, and obviously, well-loved bear.

And Mrs. Pincus still managed to get the Mouse Ears for her nieces.

 * * * * * * *

Footnote: Pudge still travels with us, only now he uses this helpful accessory.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

monster mash

I love horror movies. Or rather.... I loved horror movies. Frankenstein, Dracula, The Wolf Man, The Mummy... all of them. I watched them as a kid on my family's black-and-white TV on Saturday afternoons. They were campy and creepy at the same time. Since most of them were made in the 40s, they all had this strange — yet endearing — quality. Like the actors knew they were in a movie and were delivering scripted lines. It was like watching a play. It made things fun and not too scary. 

My love of horror movies progressed to the low-budget camp of the 1950s with beings from outer space and teenage werewolves. The acting was bad. The make-up was bad. The special effects were amateurish. But I loved them just the same. In some of the Japanese imports of the late 50s and early 60s, I swear I could see the metal pull of a zipper at the base of Godzilla's neck and he tore down an obviously miniature elevated train set in a faux downtown Tokyo.

The 60s, however, brought the real horror. England's notorious Hammer Studios offered garish takes on classic tales. Under the capable lead of Christopher Lee, Dracula, Prince of Darkness splashed vivid red blood across  the screen at a Saturday afternoon matinee, the likes of which I had never seen before. On television, I cowered with my mom as we watched the shadow of Norman Bates slash poor Marion Crane to bits in her shower in Psycho. I still maintain that Psycho is among the scariest movies I have even seen.

Of course, horror films grew more provocative and more daring and more bloody as directors pushed their limits and audiences demanded more. So-called "slasher films" became the norm with Halloween and Friday the 13th and A Nightmare of Elm Street (and all of their imitators) monopolizing theatres. Anti-heroes Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers became icons, beloved among horror movie fans. I enjoyed the initial entries into these long-running (and lucrative) film franchises, but I lost interest after the umpteenth sequel presented essentially a retelling of the original movie.

I like an interesting and clever story. That grabs my attention. I don't care to see someone getting their limbs slowly separated from their torso by a crazed madman with unexplained super-human strength and an even less concise non-sensical backstory. The current trends in horror movies tend to present a skimpy outline of a plot and rely more heavily on overly gory, in-your-face exercise in torture, sadism and suffering.

Years ago, I saw a movie called Hostel. Actually, I saw part of a movie called Hostel. I was only able to stick with it until a man was strapped into a chair and various parts of his body were removed by a masked man wielding a power saw. I don't know how Hostel ended and I really don't care. Hostel, no thanks to me, was very popular. It spawned sequels and copycats — none of which I have seen or have any intention of seeing.

There have been a few recent horror movies I have enjoyed. The Ring was clever. I didn't find it particularly scary, but I appreciated the intelligent story telling. Silence of the Lambs, if that can even be considered a "horror" movie, was taut and spine-tingling, another example of a good story being executed by good actors. Even the Japanese import Audition with its hard-to-watch climax, was well-done and suspenseful in its presentation.

It seems that today's horror movie lover is not particularly discerning. Every new release (and there are a lot of 'em) boasts a similar synopsis as other recent films. A mysterious killer that kills for the sake of killing. A variety of killing methods each designed to produce the most blood, viscera and humiliation of the victim. Overly and gratuitously explicit scenes unfairly and disturbingly equating sex with mutilation. I read a capsulized plot of a recent horror "hit" called Terrifier about a murderous clown named "Art." Art seems to have joined, if not overtaken, the ranks of Freddy and Jason as the new slasher icon. The plot was nauseating, as were the similar plots of Terrifier's two sequels. I have no plans to see Terrifier, Terrifier 2 or Terrifier 3 (when it's released in early October). As long as all the right boxes are checked, the film should do well.

I just want a good old-fashioned horror movie with a monster and a good story and good acting and not a reservoir's worth of blood and guts.

Is that too much to ask?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

scary monsters... and super creeps

Halloween is approaching. It's the time for tricks and treats. Well, because of the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, most communities across the country are figuring out creative — and safe — alternatives to the traditional, door-to-door, decidedly anti-social distancing trick-or treating. Watching scary movies is a good way to get into the Halloween spirit (pun intended!).

I love scary movies. I have loved scary movies since I was a kid when I would park myself in front of the television on a Saturday afternoon for a marathon broadcast of  horror films that were made decades before I was born. Local Philadelphia UHF station Channel 17 showed "Mad Theater" back-to-back with "Horror Theater," both hosted by the pseudo-frightening, always campy "Dr. Shock." The good doctor would entertain his mostly pre-pubescent home audience with magic tricks and hokey skits during breaks in the film. I even got to meet Dr. Shock when he made an appearance at a carnival in my neighborhood. It was a thrill... if I remember correctly. It was on Dr. Shock's show that I had my first exposure to Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boris Karloff's Frankenstein and Lon Chaney Jr.'s The Wolf Man, along with a creepy parade of monsters and witches and zombies and ghouls and all kinds of things that go bump in the night. The only problem was.... they didn't scare me. I was drawn to these characters. I was fascinated by them. I marveled at them. I just wasn't scared by them... and that's what I was looking for. And so began my life-long quest for "the big scare"... the movie that would finally give me that scare I craved.

I have seen hundreds of horror movies, from the classics of the 30s to the low-budget thrillers of the 50s and 60s, to the blood-saturated gorefests from Britain's Hammer Studios in the 70s to the cookie-cutter slasher films of the 80s. Recently, I have watched movies that have been recommended by self-proclaimed aficionados... all to great disappointment. 

In fairness, I enjoyed the initial entry of a number of horror "franchises." Films like "A Nightmare on Elm Street," "Friday the 13th," "Halloween" and even the venerable "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," in my opinion were all entertaining, but — Jesus! — do we really need eleven sequels that essential tell the exact same story over and over again? I think not.

The current crop of horror movies are either more concerned with giving the viewer a front row seat to an autopsy or offering a flimsy, nonsensical plot as an excuse to splash gratuitous nudity across the screen. I know that I am in the overwhelming minority, based on the disciple-like attendees I have seen packing the aisles at horror movie conventions. (Yeah, I used to go to them when I collected celebrity autographs.)

I watched the Netflix series Stranger Things based purely on the buzz it received among friends and on the internet. I was not entertained. Yeah, yeah... I got all the references and jokes. I just didn't think they were as clever as the writers thought they were. I actually watched all three seasons of the series, hoping I would "get into it" as it progressed. I did not. I found myself constantly checking my watch and wondering how much longer it would go on. The acting was good. No complaints there. I felt the story was limp and took too long to tell. And when it was finally told, I didn't care. And I certainly wasn't scared.

Glutton for punishment that I am, I am currently in the throes of the HBO series Lovecraft Country. I was intrigued by the dichotomy of the subject matter — an examination of the oppression of African-Americans coupled with the supernatural. I am not a fan of science fiction, comic books, suspension of belief or stories that end with the cop-out of deus ex machina. I hate that. It's as though the writers just couldn't be bothered with thinking up an ending. I have watched Lovecraft Country and did not enjoy it. Oh, I watched the whole thing — all ten grueling episodes, just to see how everything wrapped up, but the storytelling is clunky and sprawling and disjointed. And I felt it's beneath the talents of the compelling cast. Yes, I realize that I am probably not the target audience. I knew that going into it, I already have a disinclination for the genre. But I gave it a shot anyway. I shouldn't have. I want to reiterate that the production and acting of this limited series was terrific, but with the exception of a few scenes, I did not find it scary. Just long-winded.

Yesterday, I watched a movie called Trick 'r Treat. Again, this film has maintained a cult following and a lot of praise since its awkward release in 2007. It is an anthology story comprised of several stand-alone tales linked by a single character that appears in each one. I have enjoyed this format in films in the past. I found Creepshow, Twilight Zone: The Movie and even a few of the 70s examples featuring Peter Cushing (like Dr. Terror's House of Horrors) to be entertaining. They didn't scare me, but I liked them. Trick 'r Treat was awful. It was doing its very best to look cool for the cool kids. It was run-of-the-mill, uninspired, unnecessarily gory and not nearly as clever as it thought it was. As far as scary....? Uh.... nope.

Look, monsters aren't scary. Guys with big knives aren't scary. Aliens aren't scary. Ghosts aren't scary. Gallons and gallons of blood and entrails aren't scary. Messy, yes.... but not scary.

Please. I'm not asking for a whole lot. I just want to be scared. I want a movie to scare me. I want to see a movie so goddamn clever and so goddamn frightening that I wont forget it for years to come. Honestly, I have seen only two horror movies that have come very close to legitimately scaring me. Psycho, the original 1960 Hitchcock tour-de-force and Jonathan Demme's Oscar-winning thriller The Silence of the Lambs. Both films were beautifully shot and impeccably executed. Both of these films featured a despicable villain that was not — by outward appearances — a monster. Both films elicited nerve-wracking suspense and both films — thanks to great performances and thoughtful directing — made the viewer root for the bad guy. That is scary.

Halloween will be here soon. We are all stuck in the house with a lot of free time. What's a guy gotta do to get scared around here?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

down on the farm

I started a new job in August and my morning commute takes me on a lot of highway driving. When September rolled around, I noted that the billboards began to sport colors of browns, reds and golds, mimicking the changing leaves on the surrounding trees. The advertising had taken a noticeable slant towards autumn marketing, with ads for television shows debuting for fall, Thanksgiving offerings available at local supermarkets and pumpkin spice everything at local coffee outlets.

Most of the advertising is pretty standard and predictable, although I really wish the one for Dunkin Donuts read "Pumpkin at Dumpkin." That would make me happy, but I'm not about to pull off to the side of I-195 for a little bit of impromptu vandalism. That's just not me.

There is one billboard that has intrigued me since I saw it rise above the horizon just past the Big Bear Natural Foods store near the Route 13 exit, a few miles from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border. I silently stare at it as I approach from the Northbound lane and I continue to contemplate its content long after I pass by, when I should be concentrating on the volume of traffic that surrounds me. The object of my — dare I say — obsession is a billboard for something called "Bloodshed Farms." As the Halloween season approaches, many so-called "haunted attractions" spring up in the area. Most of them have fright-inducing names like "Jason's Woods," which evokes the menacing killer from the Friday the 13th film franchise. (I don't think it's a reference to Jason Alexander, although that would be pretty intriguing, too.) "Bloodshed Farms," however, made me think — obviously. The words "Bloodshed Farms" filled my imagination with thoughts of a demented Green Acres of sorts. It makes me laugh to myself every morning. I found it funny enough to want to share it via Instagram. Because I pass the billboard most mornings at around 60 miles per hour, I cannot take a photo. Instead, I searched for a suitable graphic of Bloodshed Farms to post on Instagram along with a suitably "Josh Pincus" comment.... the kind you've come to expect from the Internet's favorite red-headed stepchild.

You see, Philadelphia is surrounded by a lot of rural farmland. There are several actual farms in the area that cheerfully offer tours for those curious about how milk, cheese and other dairy products end up on your kitchen table. When I was a kid, I visited a large orchard on class trips, where apples were grown and they produced apple-centric products right there on the premises. We often took my son to a nearby dairy farm, where he'd run through their annual "corn maze" and later we'd purchase fresh milk and cookies from their small convenience store. That's the type of dichotomy that "Bloodshed Farms" brought to my skewed sense of humor. So, I certainly couldn't keep that to myself!

In my search, I also found an ad for Bloodshed Farms offering their services to accommodate your private event, like birthdays, anniversaries and the like. This gave me more fodder for an even "smart-assier" Instagram post. So, I posted....

 

It reads: "Aside from a few weeks out of the years [sic], was it a wise business decision to choose "Bloodshed Farms" for the name of your establishment?  Is this the kind of place you'd expect families to bring their kids to see cows and horses? Do you expect schools to plan class trips to see how a working farm operates? Am I buying milk and cheese from "Bloodshed Farms?" And private parties and special events? C'mon guys..."

I tagged the Bloodshed Farms Instagram account in post... just for good measure. And then I went about my day.

Almost immediately, I started getting "likes" on the post, as well as a few comments including one from @jasperdyne, an art school pal of mine, who noted that the name stems from "Ol' Zeke, who got caught in the combine back in '86" and my son, whose claim of getting butter and eggs from Bloodshed Farms is suspect, especially when they're delivered by a hockey-masked driver. Mrs. Pincus had an entirely different take, explaining that she assumed Bloodshed Farms was a summer camp for pubescent girls. Bottom line.... everyone got the joke.

Except for Bloodshed Farms.

Later in the day, I was alerted of a new comment on this Instagram post. It was from Bloodshed Farms.... and they didn't seem too pleased with my making light of their serious business of seasonal fright. They countered my levity with this:

"No. This is NOT the kind of place we expect families to bring their kids to see cows and horses. We do NOT expect schools to bring children and see how a working farm operates. Do we advertise this? No. But we do get buses of kids from Lenape High School every year as well as trips by soccer and baseball teams, dance teams, and more. We even host groups from Bancroft earlier in the day before we officially open. You should really give us a try! :)"

They started off strong and indignant, making vague references to a local high school and then a special-needs facility. Their tone grew a bit softer as they signed off with a smile and half-hearted invitation for me to experience their brand of "farm living." I'm not sure that Bloodshed Farms fully understood that I was joking. But, if you operate an establishment that produces either dairy products or blood-curdling screams (at this point, it's still unclear), do you really possess the most sharpened sense of humor?

Maybe I'll ask this guy. He left the comment: "SMH....." (shaking my head)

Though he doesn't look like a farmer to me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life's no fun without a good scare

I have always been a horror fan. The problem with the current trend in horror is it's too stupid and formulaic. What happened to good writing and clever plot twists? Now it's all jump scares and gory images for the sake of exhibiting someone's special effects skills. Where is the stylized framing of Silence of the Lambs? Where is the suspenseful storytelling of Psycho? Even the original slasher films like Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street and even Friday the 13th had well-conceived back stories before they were milked dry by four hundred inane sequels.

Submitted for your approval.

Since movies were disappointing, I turned to television and there was plenty of promise. When I was in elementary school, I was permitted to stay up to watch the NBC horror anthology Night Gallery hosted by Rod Serling. It was my favorite show (at the time) offering short vignettes featuring a roster of popular television actors in roles outside of their comfort level. Then I discovered reruns of Rod's earlier show, the venerable Twilight Zone. I also watched The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents and Thriller. All of these pretty much followed the same formula — some better some worse — but all satisfied my horror cravings... for the most part. I even enjoyed the 80s revival of The Twilight Zone as well as the theatrical film.

More recently, my television series watching habits have been limited to the unlikely pairing of HBO's brutal and gritty gangster saga Boardwalk Empire and the mindless teen fluff of Nickelodeon's iCarly. Now that both of those series are out of production, I watch whatever is on, rarely going out of my way to catch a "must-see" program.

I saw early ads for a new series on Fox's cutting edge FX network called American Horror Story. It presented a clever concept for an anthology — a core group of performers and a single story per season, with the same group taking on different roles in a different story in subsequent seasons. The initial reception was positive and the show proved popular... no thanks to me, as I never watched. It wasn't until season four that I decided to give it a shot.

May I take this opportunity to acknowledge that I'm in the minority, but, give me my two minutes to bitch.

I settled in on that early October evening in 2014 to see for myself what all the buzz was about. As the opening scenes of American Horror Story: Freak Show began, I waited to be impressed... and to experience the thrill of being scared. A little over an hour later, I was bored, disappointed and a little annoyed. I found that the show relied too much on "looking cool," with its atmospheric shots, grainy filters and stark, creepy-on-purpose sets, and not enough time was devoted to story development. I thought the acting was stilted and not at all compelling. Even multi-award-winning actress Jessica Lange could hold my interest, especially when she delivered a cover of the 1971 Bowie classic "Life on Mars," as the anachronistic episode finale of a story set in 1952. I snapped off the TV and vowed never to watch this mess again.

Well, after skipping an entire season, I decided to give American Horror Story another chance. My son came over and we binge-watched the first two episodes of season six. The series had abandoned its standard TV drama format in favor of the premise of a reality show, complete with in-studio, after-the-fact interviews and reenactments. It was sort of a show within a show within a show with actors playing actors playing real people. I was interested. I found myself enjoying the tale as it unfolded. It was a unique take on the storytelling. I was hooked. Reluctant, but hooked just the same. I watched the next episode in its regular time slot. Three episodes in and I was still enjoying it. My son, however, warned me. He told me that series creator Ryan Murphy has this uncanny knack for losing interest in his shows as they progress. He tends to go in several different directions, never fully resolving all aspects of all storylines.

Sure enough, that observation was spot on

In the following weeks, American Horror Story: Roanoke became a veritable shit show. But I watched. I was committed. I was going to see this fiasco out until the bitter end. Characters were introduced and killed. Characters were introduced and forgotten. And the characters that we got to see on every episode were cartoonish, one-dimensional sketches only serving as a bag full of theatrical blood, ready to explode when the time was right... or not right... or whenever. The series morphed into a shrill, sprawling, mindless, contradicting, aimless mish-mash that I wanted to end. And soon. By episode eight (of a ten episode series), I just wanted it to be done. It became a chore to watch. I counted the minutes until it was over, like I was taking a test in high school. I began recording the episodes, so I could fast-forward through commercials, shortening my time spent watching this shambles. At last, the final episode was broadcast. I watched, emotionless. Numbed. Disinterested. And 41 minutes later, thanks to 4x fast-forward, it was done. I didn't care what happened to any of the characters  — which ones were alive, which were dead, which were in purgatory, which were.... whatever.

This time, I swear, I will never watch that series again.

Now, I'm sure there's a Twilight Zone rerun that needs watching.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

under my wheels

My next-door neighbor rear-ended my car while it was parked (parked!) in front of my house. He rang my doorbell and sheepishly admitted to the accident (details of which were revealed by his mother later*) in an awkward exchange on my front porch. I contacted a friend who owns an auto body shop and my car was soon off for repair, with the entire cost rightly footed by my neighbor.

After a week or so, my car was returned to me as good as new (or as close to new as a ten-year old car can get). I was not really inconvenienced by its absence, as I take the train to work daily and I rarely drive on weekends. Why do I have a car then? Well, I'm not going to walk to the dry cleaners and I regularly go to concerts that are not at venues located on convenient train routes. 

When my car was returned, it was pointed out that both rear tires were in pretty poor shape. "How on earth did they even pass inspection?," was the actual assessment. I promptly made an appointment with my mechanic and I dropped my car at his shop the night before, leaving my keys and instructions in a sealed envelope that I shoved under one of the locked garage doors. The next morning, he called to say that the front tires were just as bad and he recommended replacing them as well. So, eight hundred bucks later, I was back in business. I got my car back just in time. That evening, I had plans to go to one of those "off the train route" concerts, this one remotely located in South Philadelphia.

Warning! Warning! Danger! Danger!

I hopped into my newly-tired vehicle and set out for the show. Just as I took the on-ramp to Philadelphia's notorious Schuylkill Expressway, I noticed the ominous glow of the tire sensor light on my dashboard. "Yikes!," I thought, "What didn't the mechanic do?" Here I was, doing 60 miles-per-hour on what could possibly be poorly-attached tires. Or maybe I had a flat. I lowered the radio and listened carefully, trying to slow down as cars whizzed by me on either side. The angry tire light remained at a steady amber gleam. Mocking me. Warning me of impending trouble. I pictured a tire loosening from its mount and bouncing across the four lanes as I skidded to my death on a bare, spark-spewing wheel hub. With panic being to set in, I frantically anticipated the next exit. I was approaching Girard Avenue and I passed. I was in enough trouble already without having to worry about the sketchy neighborhood surrounding the Philadelphia Zoo. ("Wow! A faulty tire AND he got shot seven times and robbed. Poor guy.") I opted for the 30th Street exit instead, where I would feel safer in the vicinity of a heavily-trafficked train station and several well-lit high rises. I pulled over into a taxicab stop and jumped out of my car. I authoritatively inspected each tire with a few kicks from my boot. I encircled my car a few more times, like most mechanically-deficient guys, half-expecting and secretly hoping a flashing neon light and a cartoon arrow to pop up and scream "Here's your problem, idiot!" But, no such luck. I called Mrs. Pincus and told her I was blowing off the concert and heading back home. She suggested I take a different route, avoiding the high-speed requirements of the Expressway. I obliged. I got back in my car and carefully maneuvered my way into traffic and through the city to Broad Street, a main thoroughfare, though punctuated by traffic lights at nearly every corner. I slowly drove the thirteen miles to my house.

When I finally arrived home after the grueling, white-knuckle journey, envisioning my demise at every trolley track and pothole, I dropped my car off at the now-closed mechanic. I scribbled a note describing my ordeal and, leaving my key, shoved another envelope under the locked garage door.

I called the mechanic bright and early the next morning. He said he was working on mu car as we spoke. It was not a problem. He explained that the tire sensors work differently in older cars and he only needed to make a small adjustment or two. He assured me that at no time was I ever in danger.

I missed the concert, but better safe than splattered across the asphalt... or however that saying goes.

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Nice work there, Alex

* She told my wife that her son, Alex, was very upset by my reaction to the accident. I was puzzled by this, because I did not yell or even raise my voice. I slowly walked to the curb where my car was parked and evaluated the damage aided only by the illumination of a nearby streetlight. When I saw the giant crack in the spare tire cover, I muttered, "Well get it taken care of." and I walked back into my house to finish my interrupted dinner. I later found out that, near tears, Alex asked his mother, "Why doesn't Mr. Pincus like me anymore? He liked me when I was a kid?" Oh, I don't know, Alex, maybe it has something to do with you just hit my fucking car!

whatever happened to my transylvania twist?

My father was coming off a divorce and my mother was, until recently, a party girl and a confirmed bachelorette. Whatever  "magic" it was that brought this unlikely couple together, it made them act like giddy newlyweds, despite being in their early thirties. 

It was December 1955 and my parents had married just a few weeks earlier. My mother sat on the sofa in their small living room in their small apartment on Roosevelt Boulevard. My father, a butcher at a Penn Fruit supermarket, arrived home after another grueling day of turning whole steer carcasses into conveniently-packaged roasts, chops and steaks. My mom greeted her new husband with a kiss. In her hand, she held the Evening Bulletin, opened to the television listings, and she was bubbling with excitement.

"Look what's on tonight," she said, her finger jabbing at one of the tiny, typeset lines in the first column, "Dracula! The one with Bela Lugosi!"

My father smiled.

"We have to watch it.," she continued, "That movie scared the crap out of me when I was a kid. It gave me nightmares! I haven't seen it in years! We just have to watch it." She looped her arm around my dad's skinny waist and squeezed herself closer in playful fright. My dad laughed.

They rushed through dinner. My mom popped a bowl of popcorn in a soup pot on the stove. They dimmed the lights in the living room and snuggled up close on the sofa. The only light in the room came in a harsh glow from the black-and-white images flashing across their modest television screen.

The movie began. My mom lowered her head as memories from 1931 swirled in her subconscious. She was a nine-year-old girl subjected to the big-screen menace of the Transylvanian count. Although details of the film were vague, she distinctly remembered the terror she felt when the malevolent Lugosi appeared. She silently shooed the thoughts out of her head and focused on the present. She was with her husband now and she was an adult. But still, she watched with a bit of uneasy anticipation.

A carriage carrying Renfield, the real estate agent, rumbled up a hill. He headed toward the castle to meet the infamous Count, disobeying the warnings and superstitions from the quaint Bavarian townspeople. He opened the great heavy doors and stepped into a massive foyer filled with cobwebs and (inexplicably) armadillos. Suddenly, in the darkness, Lugosi's rich Hungarian accent cut the atmospheric silence.

"I am Dracoola. I bid yoo velcome!"

The camera cuts to a close-up of the actor's face. It's a pasty white visage perfectly painted with cartoonish cupie-doll lips. They looked like and were about as threatening as Betty Boop's.

My mom burst out in uncontrollable peals of laughter. My father laughed as well, as he stepped into the kitchenette and returned with a calming glass of water.

My mother finally caught her breath. "This is what scared me? This? My goodness, this is hysterical!"

They watched the rest of the film accompanied by the sound of their own giggly amusement. It was comedy that rivaled Jack Benny.

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